


Tastes So Good

by Novachester



Series: Hunger [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brainwashing, Dubious Consent, Gunplay, M/M, Non Consensual, Rimming, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novachester/pseuds/Novachester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Eat You Up.<br/>The Leviathan, as promised, return to Dean and check in on how he's adapting to the changes in his body they set in motion during their last meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tastes So Good

It's been a week since Leviathan broke through and overtook Castiel entirely. 

Dean wasn't sure what to make of it when the righteous killings continued. At first, he thought that maybe Castiel was still intact, and somehow influencing the monsters inside of him with his intent. Quickly enough, though, he realized that they were mocking it.

A catholic school, full of children, almost completely wiped out. Only one girl was left alive, found with a bloody hand print matted into her pretty blonde hair. They had spoken to her, told her that her devotion was admirable, and if she wished to live on she would commit herself entirely to her new Gods. Leviathan then patted her softly on the head, and disappeared.

Dean knew something was horribly wrong when his knee-jerk reaction to the story was a spike of jealousy. He hadn't been himself for days-- seven, to be exact. His appetite had always been something of a legend, but after he'd downed his fourth burger without so much as a stretch in his gut, a hunger still gnawing away at him, it had been Sam who joked about a tape worm. Dean hadn't found it very funny.

Sam himself wasn't doing so hot, but for the most part he was lucid. Not enough to drive or really work a case, but Dean didn't have to resort to keeping him tied to the motel bed. His breaks in that calm were sudden and easily triggered, the seemingly simplest things setting him off, including the sound of cutlery clanking together or the shower running a little too hot. Dean had stopped sleeping almost entirely because he was too afraid to lose consciousness, and possibly lose Sam in the process.

Much like his appetite, that particular function wasn't behaving the way it was supposed to either. Dean had slept little more than a handful of hours in five days, but he was as alert and focused as he would be if he'd had a solid five or six every night. He couldn't explain it, and for Sam's sake, he didn't try.

Dean's sure there's some kind of symbolism in Leviathan showing up in his motel room seven days after they first met, but he really can't be bothered to give a shit about that. He's too busy yanking his gun from his back pocket, eyes darting around the room. Fuck, he'd only left for a minute. They smile at him, and he wishes to hell and back it didn't look so fucking fond, like Dean is some kind of dog greeting its master.

“Where the fuck is my brother?” Dean asks, eyes flickering from Leviathan to the beds, to the bathroom. There's no sign of Sam. The motel door snaps shut behind him, but he doesn't flinch. Doesn't move. He's not even all that sure he's _breathing._

“Do you like the modifications we made?” Leviathan inquires, fingers rolling in repeated waves at their sides, like the legs of a millipede. The vessel is cleaner than Dean had anticipated, not drenched in blood and sinew the way news reports had cried. The entire world was in an uproar over its fallen God, and all Dean could do was note the crispness of that familiar overcoat.

Dean's hand tightens on his gun, finger on the trigger. It doesn't matter that Dean knows it won't do a thing against this monster, because it helps hide the way his hands are threatening to shake, and steels his resolve. “I asked you a fucking question. Where the hell is my brother?” Dean snaps, this time firing a round into Leviathan's shoulder. They don't move, not even as black slime drips from the wound.

They cant their head, eyes set to a natural wide that makes them look nothing like Castiel, despite the shared vessel. “Come here, Dean,” they beckon, and for a horrifying instant, Dean thinks he's about to comply. Instead, he squeezes the gun harder and fires off another round. This time, to the center of Leviathan's chest. 

They still don't react to it.

“Dean,” they call, firmer this time. Dean feels it down to his very bones, and before he can even process the _hundreds_ upon _thousands_ of reasons he should not be walking towards this creature, he is. His steps are slow, cautious, but he's approaching nonetheless. The gun shakes in his hand, and with every fiber of his being, he forces himself to stop. 

“Fuck you,” he grits out.

Leviathan smiles as they close the distance between themselves and Dean, raising a hand to coil around the barrel of his gun. “So desperate to do the right thing,” they murmur, drawing the end of the gun higher towards their face. Dean holds tightly onto it, knees trembling, but steady so far. “Because all you want to do is wrong.”

Dean opens his mouth to protest, insult or lash out, but stops midway through. He can't bring himself to speak as a familiar pink tongue slides out of Castiel's mouth, swiping over the end of the gun. Blue eyes flicker up to meet Dean's, and they watch him as they take the barrel slowly into their mouth. Just the tip at first, back and forth. They visibly tongue into the muzzle of the gun before taking it deeper, leaving a shiny trail of spit and traces of black on every backwards pull.

The hunter is immobilized, wide-eyed, and to his horror, getting hard in his jeans. He watches as the barrel of the gun disappears all the way down Leviathan's throat, wet lips brushing over his finger at the trigger. It's fucking impossible, something no human can stretch their jaw to accommodate, and it's with that thought in mind that Dean pulls the trigger.

Blood splatters back onto his hand in recoil, and the bullet sails clean through Leviathan's throat, hitting the wall somewhere on the other side. There's blood behind them, but Leviathan's only reaction is to pull off slowly, licking their lips of saliva, blood and gunpowder.

“We know you, Dean,” they tell him, fingers curling around Dean's wrist, the hand holding the gun. They're cold to the touch, and as they squeeze the joint, the sensation could only be compared to being constricted by a serpent. A single muscle, contracting and writhing beneath human skin. They pull him closer, and as they do, a strained whine breaks free from Dean's throat. They stroke his wrist with their thumb, noses nearly brushing. “We know you as he knew you.”

Dean shudders violently as the tip of their tongue flicks over his lips, leaving a strip mixed of shiny black liquid and saliva. “We _love_ you as he loved you.” Dean hears the gun fall before he feels it, the hand that had been gripping it gone numb under Leviathan's hold. Their hand slides down from his wrist, and their fingers press into his palm, tracing small patterns.

The way their skin, muscle and bones move against his is wrong. It's as though they have the concept of affectionate touch, but the practical application of it eludes them. It's clumsy, alien, and yet all Dean wants, at his very core, is more of it. He finds the strength to close his fingers around theirs, squeezing hard enough that anyone else would have broken fingers. “Don't touch me,” he snarls.

“Stop us,” they whisper. As their hand slips easily out of Dean's grasp, moving to join the other in removing his clothing, Dean finds that he cannot. They slide their hands over his shoulders, pushing away his over shirt. It drops soundlessly to the ground, and Dean closes his eyes helplessly.

They press Dean back with the kind of strength he's been fighting against all his life, and never once could match. He stumbles back, hands fisted in the coat. He's not sure if he's clutching it to keep himself upright, or to pull them closer. He's not sure he cares. 

His back hits the wall, and they have him cornered, leaning in to lick along his throat. They pull on his tee-shirt, the material ripping away with ease. Their tongue traces over the mark they'd bitten into his neck seven days ago, and he shudders for it. It's the only wound or scratch he's gotten all week that hasn't healed over faster than he knows it should have.

“Do you recall when we asked if you were special, Dean?” They ask against the shell of his ear, stubble scraping against his skin. Dean clenches his jaw, unwilling to make a sound, even as their hand slides down his stomach, to the buckle of his belt, then the button of his jeans. “We've realized that you are.”

Razor sharp teeth sink into Dean's neck, matching perfectly with the crescent shaped marks they'd left before. They suck a moment before licking the blood away, mingling it with the black substance that oozes from their tongue. “Not a single human has satisfied us they way you did.” They smile, shoving his pants down. “Not a hundred.” They slide their hands back up along his thighs, dull nails scraping up the length of his body, narrowly missing his half-hard cock. They revel in the way he trembles. “Not a thousand.”

“Stop,” Dean pleas, quiet but firm, despite the shake in his voice. It's a last ditch attempt to put an end to it, but as Leviathan chuckles gently against his neck, he knows it's also a futile one. They pull him away from the wall, and the world moves in a blur before he's dropped unceremoniously onto the bed, naked. Leviathan shrugs out of the tan overcoat and black blazer simultaneously, the clothing crumpling to the ground in a heap. Dean tries to push himself back up along the bed, tries to get away, but they're fast.

Leviathan catches Dean's ankle and effortlessly pulls him back down, using both hands to dispose of his boots and socks. They tsk softly, thumb and middle finger around Dean's ankle more than enough to keep him stationary as they use the other hand to pull that old blue tie loose around their neck.

Dean's not in the mood to comply. He throws his free leg hard, aiming right for Leviathan's head, but they catch his foot in hand with a twitch of their upper lip. He almost feels satisfied at the show of annoyance, but it disappears quickly when they flip him over onto his stomach. “Fuck you!” He snaps, half muffled as they kneel between his legs, pressing a hand onto his lower back to keep him still. He struggles, tries to kick at them again, but it's fucking impossible.

Leviathan shushes him gently, and Dean goes quiet just long enough to hear the steady clicking of a zipper being pulled. His mouth goes bone dry, and he screws his eyes shut hard. _Fuck_. His heart pounds in his chest, and hellfire crawls into the corners of his vision. Dean knows this better than he would ever admit, and yet it still terrifies him.

As Leviathan crawls slowly onto the bed, Dean's pattern of breath worsens, becomes even more erratic. He keeps his eyes closed, tries to force himself to relax. He knows this, felt this thousands of times in the span of thirty years that went on forever. He grits his teeth as Leviathan presses down on his spine, using the other hand to spread him, and tries to put his mind elsewhere. He didn't have that kind of advantage in Hell, where they could shred your mind as easily as your body.

Dean waits for the nudge, the dry push, the burn and the eventual ease of slick blood as he's torn from the inside out, but he's shocked into a gasp when he feels the press of something hot and wet instead. His entire body jerks, and he feels an amused huff blown hot over his ass. “The things he wanted to do to you, Dean,” Leviathan murmur before circling his rim with their tongue. Dean's body quakes. “The things he wanted _from_ you. You cannot imagine,” they say, sounding entertained by it all. Dean's hands curl into fists as his confusion melts back into fear, anger, and most regrettably, arousal.

Dean practically _keens_ as that clever tongue swipes over his hole, pushing at and slicking it, igniting nerves he barely knew existed. The wet muscle is overwhelmingly hot as it drags along the cleft of his ass, pushing in on every pass. Dean can feel something more than saliva, recognizes the thick, slippery feel of whatever the hell that black goo is wherever Leviathan's tongue touches. If he could see himself, he'd see the way it was already dripping down his thighs, coating them black.

Dean's face winds up buried in the pillow as Leviathan takes their time licking into his hole, drawing small, needy noises from his throat. He doesn't even notice the way his hips have begun to rock gently, despite the scrape of stubble scratching where Leviathan has him spread wide, dining on him like he's something exquisite. Their teeth slide over the burned and slicked skin, and Dean's body bucks against them with a gasp, drawing a soft chuckle from them.

He doesn't know why he isn't expecting it when there's a blunt pressure that isn't tongue probing at his hole. He inhales sharply, unsure of if he wants to pull away or push back, but the choice is stolen from him when a long finger slips passed his rim. Dean whines, arching his back into the touch, and his body eagerly accepts the intrusion, one after another.

Dean doesn't realize it when he starts babbling, pathetic whimpers and pleas-- for what, he hasn't the faintest idea. All he understands is the burn in his throat and ass that's itching and crawling slowly over the rest of his body, a hunger only Leviathan can possibly satisfy.

“Please,” he groans, rocking back fully on the three fingers currently stretching and scissoring him open. “Just, fuck-- fucking do it,” he bites out, frustrated, needy and shamefully hard. His entire body jolts when a hand suddenly comes down hard across his ass, his throat going tight as he keens against the sting. Leviathan soothes a slicked hand over the mark, and Dean whines when they strike again, arching into it despite himself.

“Intoxicating,” they murmur against his skin, stroking the flesh wetly. “Your hunger is intoxicating.” Their hand swipes down across his ass again and Dean is gasping, writhing beneath them. He doesn't feel the pain of it, but every hit sends a zing to his cock that makes him cry out. His entire body is pulsing for them, begging for some kind of completion.

He no longer wants them to get away from him, he just wants it to end. He buries his face in the mattress, his body slowly going lax, and his face burns with the shame of it as they chuckle, stroking down his flanks. He feels them shift behind him, the way they spread his legs as they nudge between them, and he does his best to ignore them as they begin to speak.

“We accept your submission,” they purr, fingers withdrawing from where they were buried within him. He means to snap out 'go to hell', but the words are stolen from him when they grasp his hips and yank him properly up onto his knees, positioning him. 

Dean bites his tongue at the first nudge of their cock and uses will power dredged up from God knows where to resist pushing back into it. Even after the stretch of tongue and fingers, the burn of their cock is intense, sending shivers throughout Dean's body. An impatient whine escapes his throat once they're half way in, and then a gasp as they bottom out with a sudden snap of their hips, striking a match inside of him that ignites white light behind his eyes. Finally, _finally,_ he feels that thirst begin to quench.

“Good,” they murmur as Dean tries to writhe against them, holding his hips steady. 

Slowly, they begin to thrust, dragging in and out of Dean in a steady rhythm. Dean's moaning long before he can think to stop himself, brain overwhelmed by everything that they are. He can taste them, feel their influence on his skin, and all it makes him is hungry for more. He nudges himself up onto his elbows to give himself better leverage and begins fucking himself onto their cock, shuddering every time his prostate is brushed.

“Please, fuck-- Oh God, harder,” he breathes, the shame hardly phasing him when opposed by the sensations rushing through him. Leviathan comply, snapping their hips harder, sliding easily through the slick mess they'd made of him. It quickly becomes too much, the force with which they drive into him causing the bed to slam into the wall, but he can still hear himself begging, “Harder, _harder!_ ”

Dean's crying out with every thrust now, but he knows that if they stopped he would probably drop dead right then and there. The hunger is consuming his body and his thoughts, a steady mantra of _moremoremorepleaseCasfuckingGodmore_ falling from his lips as he rides out the impossible pace. The pressure builds in his body until he feels tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, his neglected cock swollen and dripping with need.

Leviathan reaches out to grip his hair, yanks him back. It forces his spine to bow perfectly, and the switch in angle, the sting of their touch on his scalp, is all Dean needed to tip over the edge. He tumbles gracelessly into orgasm, a scream falling from his lips as the sensation is wrenched from bone deep, his mind going blank with pleasure. He can vaguely feel Leviathan fucking him through it, hissing a language he doesn't understand into his ear, but it's the last thing he remembers before the darkness closes in, and he passes out.

 

When Dean wakes up he's groggy, mind cluttered by a haze he's struggling to clear. He's sprawled on the motel bed, clothed and clean-- at least, superficially. He can still feel it beneath his skin, the slick of black ooze and the chill of their touch. It's all over him, in him, seeped to the bones. He's breathing hard when he jolts upright, much to the chagrin of Sam, who startles from his position on the opposite bed.

“Dean? You okay?” Sam asks, his voice rough with what little sleep he'd apparently managed to get. Dean gapes at him for a long moment before he manages to close his mouth, looking down, then around the room. Leviathan had been there, he knows it. Not just from his own sense of self, but the room. It's clean of blood and ooze, but to the point where he knew they had cleaned up. The motel is spotless, not a trace of dust or a stain on the wall, and it makes Dean shiver. 

Why bother cleaning him up?

He manages to completely forget he hasn't answered Sam. Dean jerks slightly when the bed dips with his brothers weight, and he watches as Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “It was a nightmare,” Sam tells him, voice steady and patient, sympathetic.

Dean can only nod. Sam is so wrong. So very, very wrong. Dean shrugs away from his touch, feeling as though somehow Sam will feel it on him, the taint and the darkness. “Yeah,” he rasps, reaching up to rub his eyes so that Sam can't see the lie in them. “Yeah, I know.”

There's a silence that feels like it stretches on forever, and then Sam gets up. “I'm gonna get you some water,” he says, and Dean manages a thanks despite knowing it won't quench the burn in his throat. He knows now why food hasn't had any affect, why he's been able to go without sleep. Whatever they've fed him has crawled into every pore of who he is and made him crave more, made him _need_ them.

Dean's cock jerks in the confines of his jeans at the thought, and all he can do is groan into his hand.

_Fuck._


End file.
